


it's the silent ones that kill you, they'll eat you inside out

by crushcries



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Victim Blaming, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcries/pseuds/crushcries
Summary: Aragorn has had bad dealings with women in the past, and struggles with old fears in Eowyn's presence. Thankfully, his companions are around to soothe him.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	it's the silent ones that kill you, they'll eat you inside out

**Author's Note:**

> sort of based off my thorns fic, but all you really need to know is that Aragorn was basically roofied in the past. Nothing is explicit.
> 
> **cw vomiting, mentions of poisoning, implied past rape**

It started with Eowyn.

She was a beautiful and highly respectable woman, of course, and he wished her nothing but the best—but his skin crawled each time he noticed her gaze fall upon him. She regarded him with too much… interest. Her eyes were gentler and infinitely kinder than **hers,** but it panicked him nonetheless to see the expression upon yet another golden haired lass. He often found himself nearly jumping out of his skin at the sight of the Rohirrim women in general, their wavy, golden locks catching his eyes and making old fears clutch at him—but most of them lacked the same elegance that **she** had possessed. He only found such grace in Eowyn.

Now, Aragorn was a man by no means ruled by his emotions; he was quite practiced at shaking off nerves and reeling in panic—such skills were necessary in a ranger. Yet, there was nothing he could do about the initial surge of fear he got when he mistakenly saw **her.** His hands often shook for many minutes after, resulting in some difficulty manipulating tools and reins. If his companions noticed, they spoke nothing of it.

He kept himself in check, and slowly it became more manageable. Never disappeared completely, but he became more accustomed to the sight of blonde women again.

Then Eowyn offered him a drink.

She had caught his gaze, clearly wanting his attention. As usual the sight made his heart lurch unpleasantly, his fingers growing numb as an ache tingled at his back—but he took a breath and pushed passed it; it was only Eowyn. Lady of Rohan. She was respectable. He turned towards her like she wanted, giving her his full attention (at least, as full as it could be after such a start,) and she held out a goblet of wine. Aragorn’s blood ran cold, the anxiety from before hitting twice as hard. Suddenly he was back _there_ with **_her_** as **_she_** offered him a mug of poisoned ale.

His fingers felt frostbitten, yet he was terribly hot as his hands closed around the cup. It was traditional—everyone drank from the cup. It spoke of peace and trust, and Aragorn did not intend to offend Theoden or suggest any ill will. He couldn’t say no.

He couldn’t say no.

_He couldn’t say no. He couldn’t push her away. He couldn’t tell anyone of how she’d hurt him. He couldn’t say no._

He couldn’t say no.

He might as well have lost his head for how light it felt on his shoulders, might as well have been deaf for how the ringing in his ears drowned out everything else.

Everyone drank from the cup, he reminded himself. She obviously was not poisoning them all. _(Not that anyone would notice if she were,_ a voice whispered; _for they were all drinking themselves into oblivion anyway.)_

He lifted the cup to his lips and glanced up at Eowyn, who looked all too pleased at the action. Fear cut through his belly like a knife.

She was not poisoning everyone, he reminded himself as he tipped the cup back.

He had intended to drink it, truly—but he found that instead he’d tightly sealed his lips around the rim, and only lifted the cup enough to barely feel the wet sting of wine touch his lips, before pushing it back into Eowyn’s hands. She knew he had not drank, Aragorn thought. She made a face, but Aragorn did not linger to parse it fully, hurrying off to seek distance and seclusion. He thought not about where he was headed, merely following his feet wherever they led him. He thought of the room he and his company had been afforded, of the cots that laid within, and a sharp, anxious pain flitted through his body, leaving him trembling hard.

In the end, he wound up in a weapons chamber, where he clambered forward and braced his hands upon a wooden table, staring wide eyed at nothing in particular. His mind sped on, leaving him grasping at little more than loose threads of fears and segments of pain, both real and imagined. He did not see the tabletop, only flashes of images.

A bed, hands upon him, a cup, blonde hair, bile in his throat, an unwelcome whisper in his ear—

“Aragorn?”

His whole body jolted, recoiling from the source of the voice. He threw his gaze over his shoulder to find Legolas, lingering in the doorway. Aragorn knew not how long he had been here—if Legolas had followed him out or if he’d disappeared long enough to warrant searching for. Concern lightly contorted the elf’s features. Aragorn righted himself, bracing back over the desk. His head fell towards it with a sigh.

“Legolas,” he greeted after a touch too long.

“What are you doing here?”

The inquiry was washed away under a rapid torrent of thoughts, until he forgot there was one to respond to to begin with. Fear and reason warred within his mind, and reason was not winning; every argument gave way to the flood of fear. The wood creaked under his grip as a tremor ran through him.

“Peace, Estel,” said Legolas, closer now, as he rested a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “It is over now. Come back to us.”

Aragorn’s head snapped up in alarm. He stared at him in horror, thinking he _knew,_ and felt a sting of betrayal that Arwen had told him without his consent.

—Until he realized Legolas most likely spoke of the battle of Helm’s Deep. Aragorn’s body was in such a sorry state that the relief it brought to him was too much, making his knees buckle beneath his own weight. Legolas, quick as ever, dipped to catch him before he hit the ground. Aragorn’s hands clutched at the table and Legolas’s tunic as he regained his footing. He wasn’t of a mind to thank Legolas for his reflexes.

Legolas’s supporting hands lingered, and he shifted, lightly tugging Aragorn towards the entrance. “Come, you are wearied and must rest.”

Aragorn drew a sharp breath and ripped himself away from Legolas.

“No!” he cried, much louder than was necessary or intended. Surprise and confusion crossed over Legolas’s face, but thankfully no offense.

“No,” Aragorn repeated, quieter though no less earnest, shaking his head back and forth. It only deepened Legolas’s frown, his brows furrowing.

“Are you well, Aragorn?” Legolas questioned, and did not wait for an answer before taking his head into his hands and looking him over, studying his eyes and threading through his hair in search of injury. Aragorn only half-heartedly leaned away from his touch, knowing that resisting would only make his concern worse if Legolas thought he was concussed.

“I- I cannot sleep,” he offered pitifully. Words seemed nearly impossible to squeeze out, much less think of in the first place. “I will not.”

Legolas opened his mouth to speak and Aragorn shook his head at the words he knew would come, drawing away from him.

“The battle is over, mellon nin. Even a ranger such as yourself needs rest where he can get it.”

Aragorn did not listen. The mere thought of lying in a cot made him flinch. He felt he was suffocating and drew a deep breath, before nausea surged through him. He lurched at the sensation, wobbling in place, and all coherent thoughts were gone in the wind once more. _You shouldn’t be sick!_ his instincts screamed. _Something’s wrong!_

_“-t’s wrong?”_

The next thing Aragorn knew was that he was on the ground, still in the weapons chamber, with his back pressed to the wall near the entrance. Legolas was crouched in front of him, a hand squeezing his shoulder as he peered at him with deeply concerned eyes. Aragorn wasn’t sure if the touch was soothing, or if he wanted to slap it away. His own hands were busy clutching at his chest above his racing heart, tugging at his tunic while Legolas tried valiantly to save the seams from ripping.

Aragorn pressed his back hard against the wall, the jagged bricks that formed it digging sharply into his back. The pain distracted him somewhat from the sensations that wracked his body—from his racing heart that felt it might give up at any moment, the burning in his lungs, the churning in his stomach...

Legolas turned and called for Gimli, who shortly after strode in briskly, sobered by the alarm in Legolas’s voice, perceptible only to those who knew the elf well.

“Legolas! What’s—” Gimli stopped, noticing Aragorn slumped against the wall. “Aragorn!”

He knelt down, putting a hand on his other shoulder. “What happened?”

Aragorn was in no state to speak himself.

“I don’t know.” Legolas shook his head. “I need you to find Gandalf and bring him here. Hurry!”

Aragorn did not perceive the hesitation Gimli had at leaving his side, only the sharp nod of his head before he shot up and took off, demanding over his shoulder, “You keep a close eye on him!”

Turning back to Aragorn, Legolas ducked his head to try to meet his eye.

“Aragorn,” he said firmly but not unkindly. Aragorn could only lift his head with a heaving gasp, not his eyes; they seemed beyond his control now, fixed on the ground.

“Are you injured?”

Aragorn shook his head, almost imperceptible among his shivers—though he was unsure. What do you call being _poisoned?_

He knew he hadn’t drank it, merely let it touch his lips—but that was all it took sometimes, wasn’t it? Some plants could spread their poison through a mere brush of contact, without any kind of consumption.

Legolas pleaded in Sindarin, _“Then what is wrong, my friend? You must tell me so that I can help you.”_

_”I- was-”_ he panted, then writhed as voicing it only made the stirring in his stomach worse. Had he licked his lips after his pretend sip? He’d tried to wipe it off. Had a drop rolled into his mouth without his notice? Had there been residue on the rim, of which he’d wrapped his lips around? In his panicked state, each seemed more and more likely.

He found himself on his feet, Legolas quickly following, as he threw himself towards the nearest receptacle. He heaved into a bucket—who knew what it’s purpose had been before—and Legolas swept his hair out of the way. The resulting bile was the most bitter tasting thing he’d ever experienced.

“You’re ill?” Legolas brushed his free hand over Aragorn’s brow, testing his temperature. He shook his head, but the movement brought on another bout of nausea and he retched again.

“Poisoned!” Aragorn gasped, nearly choking on his own vomit. He felt he could keel over at any moment. That his heart or body or mind would give out. That he was experiencing his last, pitiful moments.

He drew back, taking deep, heaving breaths while Legolas supported him.

“Poisoned?” Legolas repeated, alarmed. “Were you struck by orc blade? Tell me where.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Drink.”

It was then that Gimli came rushing back with Gandalf in tow, the both of them sweeping to Aragorn’s side.

“What has happened?” Gandalf demanded.

“He says he’s been poisoned,” answered Legolas.

“Poisoned?!” cried Gimli and Gandalf in unison. Gandalf replaced Legolas in front of him as he knelt down.

“By orc blade?”

“Nay, he says it was in his drink.”

Gandalf frowned and lifted Aragorn’s head by his chin, who stared up at him with wild terror, yet some hope that he could still be saved. Gandalf studied him hard. What he was looking for, Aragorn could not know.

Eventually, his gaze softened. His hand drew away to rest upon his shoulder instead.

“You have not been poisoned, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” Gandalf announced. “Only by your mind. You are succumbing to panic.”

Legolas and Gimli sighed in relief at this, losing the tension that had previously held them rigid. Gimli muttered a thank you and grumbled a complaint to no one in particular.

Aragorn was not as comforted by his words. They did not make sense to him—how could he feel so terrible if nothing were wrong? How could he feel he was dying, if he was not?—and for a brief, foolish moment, he doubted Gandalf.

He did feel that one of the many veils of panic had been lifted from him, however. One small sheet among dozens.

“There is much at stake, but rest easy tonight—you are surrounded only by friends and allies.”

Aragorn felt slightly soothed for a moment, until the implications caught up with him. He winced, a new wave of panic and nausea crashing over him.

“Still you will not sleep, Aragorn?” Legolas questioned. Aragorn shook his head. Poison or no, he couldn’t bear the thought of making himself that vulnerable again. It would feel like playing into the hands of some unseen enemy. It would feel like… asking for it.

“I sense there is more to this than a mistaken fear of poison,” Gandalf claimed, rising to his feet with the aid of his staff. Aragorn ducked his head. “But that may be better addressed another time. For now, it is late, and there is much to do tomorrow. We will do what we can to assure you of your safety, Aragorn, so that you may get some much needed rest.”

Legolas and Gimli nodded in agreement, a determined promise in their eyes. Gimli clapped Aragorn on his shoulder, and his head swam in and out of comfort and terror.

They did not coax him into laying down, so much as Gimli wrapped an arm around his shoulders and then flopped back onto the bed of cloaks they’d spread out, pulling Aragorn down with him and holding him tightly against his chest. Aragorn strained against his grip but did not quite fight it—his body merely had the impulse to snap upright, where he could stay alert and _awake._ Then Legolas draped himself weightlessly over them, shielding Aragorn from the world. Together he and Gimli murmured promises of safety and protection, and Aragorn relaxed against them, feeling soothed by the rise and fall of Gimli’s chest under his head, and the barely-there pressure of Legolas on top of him.

Gandalf draped a familiar cloak over the three of them, and softly wished them—and Aragorn especially—a peaceful sleep, before wicking out the lights and leaving them to their slumber where no one should have reasonably been sleeping to begin with.

Aragorn felt his heart slowly quit slamming against his ribcage and ease back into a regular, soft pulse, syncing with Gimli’s in his ears. He was protected; none could get to him if they dared to try. He expected to have trouble falling—and staying—asleep, but instead, as he listened to the soft breathing of his companions, his exhausted body was lulled into a deep, contented sleep.


End file.
